


Night Stalking

by Raisans_Grapeon



Series: Letters Left on your Desk [4]
Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Murder, Non-Graphic Violence, Psychopath, Ricky in how to get away with murder, Ricky needs to stop, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 16:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17450399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raisans_Grapeon/pseuds/Raisans_Grapeon
Summary: Ricky Goldsworth stalks the night, hunting for sport. He slips by the sirens and lights, pleased with the ease of getting away with murder. Though, after a week or so of searching, the police department brings in an independent investigator, who has an impressive track record. Ricky is taken aback; an idea formulating. Before he could get a word in edgewise, Ricky had sent a letter.





	Night Stalking

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, welcome to another fic of mine.
> 
> I am not fantastic at writing, and critique would be greatly appreciated. Comments in general mean a lot to me, and even a quick kudo is always welcomed.
> 
> So we got a bit of origin story for the murderer so that's fun. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Richard “Ricky” Goldsworth had been in the killing business for a while. When he was 8 he ran down a dumb lizard with his bike. It was an accident, the thing running out into the path of his front wheel before the kid had the chance to react, and his wheels made a harsh contact. The lizard was pressed into the pavement, its back leg only twitching occasionally. Blood was smeared on the bike’s dry black wheels. The boy could only stare in awe at what he had done. In an instant, Ricky had ended a life, and it was so easy. A strange feeling of pride and pleasure was a welcomed surprise. It blossomed in his chest and spread out to his limbs. A couple of neighborhood boys rolled by on their own bikes or skateboards, all of them stopping to admire the corpse. Ricky eagerly regaled the tale to them, all of them laughing it off. The boys all agreed to ride down the street to hang out near the park, but before Richard swung his leg over the bike frame again, he stared at the lizard’s beady eyes. They were empty, devoid of any thought, and he felt the sensation sizzle back in, more subdued now. He guessed it was normal to feel it since no one else seemed to be too worried about the death. As a result, Ricky never brought it up with anyone. He didn’t seek out the emotion, appreciating it as a fleeting feeling.

 

When Ricky was 13, he got a dog. It was a pitbull named Tank. Tank was well built, and could take a beating before he keeled over and died. Ricky enjoyed roughhousing with him, dodging claws and wrangling the snapping jaws to the ground in his small, walled off yard in a patch of sandy dry dirt and dead grass. They’d be locked in a playful power struggle for hours sometimes, Tank growling in what Ricky knew to be happiness, and Ricky falling into fits of laughter throughout the entire endeavour. He’d get scratched and bit, but in the end, the boy always won, and make an off hand remake about doing it again sometime. Tank would scamper off somewhere else, and that would be the end of that. The dog often tempted his owner into the fights by running the moment they made eye contact. Though, a lot of the time, Ricky’s mom would go after the dog first, and his dad would keep him there. His dad often told him to stop hurting the dog, but Ricky would always refute that Tank loved the play that they had. 

 

One day, Ricky was able to chase the dog. Mom and Dad weren’t home to stop him. His bare feet thumped against the hardwood, slipping about around corners as adrenaline pulsed through his veins. Power surged through every muscle, aching to be released. The need to feel the euphoric glee he got from beating his dog down clouded his mind, and he got tunnel vision. All he could focus on was the battered body of Tank, and the petrified look that seized the dog’s eyes, now knowing what his parents saw during every fight he had with the dog. Ricky could see it’s teeth, gleaming white, and it’s claws, ebony black. How unfair it was that the dog got to play with knives. The boy stopped, a gleeful grin growing as the dog disappeared among the walls. Ricky walked with a steady stride, across the living room, through the front hallway, into the kitchen. Mom had a knife block, filled with a wide array of claws to choose from. Silly dog was stuck with his own, dull hooks. Ricky decided to play fair, picking out a small blade, meant for mincing garlic, or fresh herbs. It fit well in his hand, the handle resting in his palm. It had a satisfying weight, and the ease at which he could swish it through the air. The stakes were raised, and Ricky took a new approach. His steps were soft, near inaudible. An impossibly large smile was plastered against his toned skin. Through the rooms and corridors, Ryan stalked, ears sharp and his heart racing with the thrill of the hunt. 

 

That evening, Ricky learned two valuable things. One, he needed to be better at clean up. Two, hunting down the thrill lead to a much more satisfying pay off.

 

Years passed, Ricky slashing through them as he perfected an unusual craft. He found a favorite knife, and a learned the ins and outs of a clean job. So many times the teen had been caught, either in the act of killing a neighborhood dog, or found tracking blood into the house. He seemed to always get caught. Mom and Dad tried what they could between lawsuits from enraged pet owners. They’d put him through therapy, psychoanalysis, but lying was so easy. By 17, Ricky had gotten away with his first killing. It was a cat that had wandered into his yard. It was springtime, and the smell of chrysanthemums wafted through the air, and he sent his knife straight through the skull. Scarlet blood stained the fresh grass, and dirtied the boy’s shirt. The work was quick, and Ricky was quicker to get rid of the body. He dug a shallow grave, knowing there was nothing to dig it up. He turned on the sprinklers to wash the bloodied grass, and snuck inside through his bedroom window to get changed and clean his shirt in the sink. Afterwards, made sure to scrub away blood that he left on the windows or wall, and smoothed out any areas where his feet made an indent in the ground. No one ever knew something had died that day, and it was the best he had ever felt.

 

Into his adulthood Goldsworth set his eyes on a bigger prize. Game so plentiful that it would be a crime for him to not be at least intrigued. He killed his first human at 23, and went into hiding from the law at 24. The killings passed from hobby to necessity. He’d stab the corpses long after they had died, relishing in pleasurable warmth that would encompass him. When he wasn’t killing, Ricky was watching the cops rush around, trying to scrounge up clues. No weapon. Ricky would never leave his knife behind. No fingerprints. The man fancied gloves. No connections to Ricky’s person. The killer was at least fair in dealing out death, and merely doing it a random. Revenge was so cliche. After a while, Goldsworth decided to throw the police department a bone, and he began leaving a gold painted leaf behind, just so they know that it was him, and they don’t mix his masterful crimes with some hectic trainwreck that someone did to their wife or something. Was he making it easier for them to find him? Yes. Were they smart enough to do so? Definitely not. He had confidence in that.

 

However, the day came where Ricky found one who might’ve been able to unravel his lies. A detective named C.C. Tinsley that would often be hired by the pd to look into tricky cases. From what Goldsworth had heard, he was clever, and hyper observant. At first, the killer didn’t think much of the man based on his sunken eyes, scraggly shadow of a beard, and his poorly styled hair. The man looked more like an alcoholic rather than a hardened detective, and Ricky could tell that he enjoyed his liquor. He smoked, ate an inordinate amount of street side and fast food, and always had a mug in hand. The detective wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of fashion either, wearing an old, worn, beige, trench coat, with a dress shirt, suspenders and one of his fedoras. It was the only clothing item that changed colour. Ricky couldn’t even begin on the man’s abominable manners. Needless to say, Ricky didn’t like Tinsley upon his first meeting with him, which consisted of the killer sitting on rooftops and following the new investigator around. First impressions, though, can be deceiving. 

 

Ricky was sitting on the fire escape outside of Tinsley’s office window when he took a peek inside to see the man at his desk with piles and piles of papers before him. It looked daunting, but Tinsley was relaxed, his shoulders rolled back as he diligently combed over reports and files. Occasionally, he’d mumble something, and write it on the nearest blank paper almost like if he didn’t write it then, something terrible would happen. It was incredibly entertaining to Ricky, and he decided that this Tinsley character was worth the benefit of a doubt.

 

A day passed, and in the thick of night, Goldsworth slipped into the detective’s office, and left a properly packaged note on his desk. 


End file.
